


Of Butterfly Wings and Hurricanes (and other, unimportant things)

by HogwartsDuchess (NephthysMoon)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Marauders' Era, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:24:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephthysMoon/pseuds/HogwartsDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.”</p><p>What remained of Hogwarts’ defenders rushed, en masse, to the Entrance Hall and through the massive doors, and she followed. Voldemort still spoke, but it was drowned out in a cry that sounded nothing like her favourite professor, and she came to a stop beside McGonagall, adding her own voice to the denial. And then silence.</p><p>Or: </p><p>That time Hermione makes a choice during the Battle of Hogwarts, staring at Harry Potter's limp body cradled in Hagrid's arms, to sacrifice the life she has to make Harry's long and happy, even if it means hers is over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miles To Go Before I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my beta, the incomparable [Nyruserra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyruserra/pseuds/Nyruserra), for all of her tireless work on my many, many stories. This story has had several incarnations over the years, ranging from accidental to deliberate time travel, to Neville being an unwilling passenger on the journey, to Lily's ghost being the one that sets it all into motion - there are literally no words for how many versions of this story I've started and scrapped. This is a time travel story, obviously. It's also a story that explores the consequences of time travel, and attempts to blend many different versions of the concept together. I can only hope I've managed to pull it off. Secondary pairings will be revealed and notated as the story progresses.

Her charms text lay open on her lap, the brief description of the theory behind magically enlarging spaces insufficient for her needs; her intention to turn the closet in her bedroom into a small potions lab over the Christmas holidays had died a painful death when theory proved to be more difficult to master than she’d anticipated. 

Giving it up as a lost cause – she’d be leaving for King’s Cross in a few hours – she slipped the scrap of pink satin ribbon she used as a bookmark between the pages and closed the book with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary. The holidays had not, precisely, gone well. Her parents had always been very understanding when she chose to spend the holidays at Hogwarts, or with her friends, but she wasn’t certain that it had been the best decision, all the same. Her mother had met her at the station, after a terribly long train ride spent mostly in her own company. Harry had been off with Ron, who had, naturally, been so wrapped up in his precious Lavender that he had probably not even noticed his presence. Ginny and Dean had been off together; it seemed like everyone was coupling up except for her and Harry. The logical thing, of course, was for the two of them to prove the rumors of the past two years true, and get together. 

She laughed, silently, not wanting to disturb her parents. It wasn’t that she necessarily wanted to date Harry; she didn’t really think of him like that. She was aware, in a sort of clinical way, that Harry was good-looking – certainly better-looking than Ron. But, it wasn’t something she really thought about with Harry. And she rather suspected that any sort of romantic relationship between the two of them would be short-lived and only slightly shy of a disaster. Still, it was rather frustrating to be seen by both of them – as well as most of the other boys she knew – as something of a sexless brain. 

Too many American movies about ‘high school’ had set her up with the expectation that eventually, she'd break her cocoon, and emerge the butterfly. Unfortunately, that had happened two years ago, and while it seemed like everyone at Hogwarts had a long memory for everything else, her moment had been forgotten. Besides, she was who she was, and she didn’t want or need the attention of stupid boys if it meant she had to spend hours making herself look better just so they’d notice her. 

Needless to say, her holiday hadn’t been sunshine and bunnies, and as she heard her mother’s voice calling her down to the lounge, she suspected it was about to get worse. 

At some point in the past few years, her parents had, without her knowledge, taken a subscription to The Daily Prophet, and most of the holiday had been spent explaining to them why it was absolutely impossible for her to leave Hogwarts. Quite frankly, she felt it was a prime example of too little, too late, and she wasn’t in the mood to face another ‘family meeting’, where her parents tried to convince her that it was in her best interest to transfer to some Muggle school, and she tried not to think of the fact that she was, technically, of age in her world, and was not required, by Wizarding law, to submit to their demands. 

“Coming,” she called, as her sock-clad feet hit the polished wood floor of her bedroom. With a brief prayer to Merlin for patience, she walked down the stairs, slowly and carefully, so as not to make ‘that dreadful noise’. Her face was set for battle when she stepped through the archway into the lounge, but the rather stunned looks on both her parents’ faces gave her pause. 

“Oh, Hermione, there you are.” Her mother’s voice was stilted, and she hadn’t looked at her daughter. Concerned, Hermione followed the direction of her gaze and nearly choked. 

Seated in her father’s favorite chair was Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, in vivid, canary yellow robes liberally dotted with purple stars. The light refracting from them made her suspect that the stars were actually glittered. As if the robes were not enough, he wore a pointed wizard’s hat of bright aqua. One had to give the man points for bravery for his wardrobe alone. He was either completely senile, utterly blind, or absurdly courageous – possibly all three. 

Her father cleared his throat and pulled his eyes from the rather startling apparition in front of them. “Hermione, this person says he knows you – that he’s a teacher at your school?” 

Dumbledore’s appearance could only cement the idea that Hogwarts was a madhouse in her parents’ minds. “Hello, Professor. I didn’t expect to see you here.” She let the question speak for itself. 

“I was in the neighborhood, Miss Granger, and thought I would offer to bring you back to Hogwarts with me, rather than forcing you to take the rather long, boring train ride to school.” 

Perhaps her parents didn’t understand that it wasn’t an offer – after all, how could they possibly realize that the man in the ridiculous clothing was not only the Headmaster of her school, but also the only man that Voldemort was said to have feared? They couldn’t, unlike her, be expected to realize that there was no one in their area of London he could possibly be coming to see – not dressed like that. 

“That’s a kind offer, Professor, but Dan and I already took the day off to take Hermione back up to the train station,” her mother, always the more vocal of her parents, said. 

“If we even let her return at all.” That was her father’s disgruntled mumble, and she rolled her eyes. 

Apparently, however, Dumbledore not only heard him, but seemed to feel a response was required. “Not return? Oh, dear me. Hasn’t Hermione told you? She is, quite possibly, the brightest witch of her age – of any age, for many generations past. She is a gift to the magical world, and a delight at Hogwarts.” 

Normal parents would be flustered and proud, hearing a professor praise their child so – her parents, unfortunately, couldn’t even choose this one moment to be normal. 

“Oh, a gift, is she?” Rose Granger’s voice was sharp, scathing. “A filthy little Mudblood like her? We’ve read your paper. We know what your perfect little magical world thinks of people like her. After that ridiculous little Wesley man questioned us about the simplest things in that monstrosity you’re pleased to call a bookshop, we looked out for other parents like us on that blasted platform. The stories we’ve heard about that school!” 

This was the first Hermione had ever heard of parents making friends with the parents of other Muggleborns; she could only imagine what someone like Colin Creevy might have told his parents in his cheerful innocence. The blasted boy probably thought missing most of his first year because he was Petrified was a bloody lark! 

“I’m terribly sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Granger,” he started, but Rose cut him off. 

“Actually, it’s Dr. Granger.” 

One of her mother’s pet peeves was being relegated to a plain ‘Mrs.’ when she’d worked just as hard for her title as her father had. 

“I do beg your pardon, Dr. Granger. But you must be aware that Hermione is of age in our world, and should you attempt to prevent her from returning to Hogwarts, as long as she is willing to return, the Ministry would not stand for the interference.” 

The red creeping up her mother’s face looked like nothing so much as that awful shade Ron turned when he was about to spout off at the mouth – the one that clashed horribly with his hair. Sure enough, her mother proved to be as unable to hold her tongue as a sixteen-year-old boy. 

“Oh? Your Ministry would do something about it? And what exactly could they do to us? Send those invisible Dementors after us for refusing to allow our child to return to some death trap of a school where more than half the students would be happy to watch her bleed out on the floor – hell, most of them would probably paint themselves with her blood afterwards!” 

“Mum!” She’d had enough. She’d been listening to some variation on the same theme since her mother had picked her up from the station, and there was only so much she could take. “When I got my letter, you were relieved. There was an explanation for the ‘freaky’ things that sometimes happened around me. You were happy to send me off for nine months of the year, so I could learn to ‘control’ it. I belong with my own kind – you’ve told me that so many times. So just – please – let me go, to be with my own kind. I’ll never darken your door again. Tell your friends I ran away, that I made friends at school that were bad influences.” 

It was her mother’s tears that finally stopped her rant. “Listen here, young lady,” her father, always the one to hold his temper, finally snapped. “When we told you that you belonged with your own kind, it was because you always seemed so much happier in your letters, from that school, from those Wesleys’ house, from that weird London townhouse that your mother and I couldn’t see – you were happy there. You’d never been happy here, not even before you knew what you were.” 

The guilt hit her in the gut like a Bludgeoning Hex. She’d been a lonely outcast as a child, and she’d never truly been happy at home. Her first two months at Hogwarts were an extension of that. But once she’d become friends with Ron and Harry – the world had been brighter. Even when things were at their darkest (and she didn’t need to be a Seer to know it was only going to get worse), she was happier with Ron and Harry than she’d ever been in Kensington. 

She looked at her father – really looked at him for the first time; his hair was greying at the temples, the irrepressible curls she’d inherited were shorn close to his head. Deep lines bracketed his eyes. Her parents hadn’t been young when they’d had her, she’d always known that, but she had never expected to realize that they were old. And tired. Merlin, they both looked so tired. Worry for their only child, the one they’d thought was a miracle, had aged them terribly. She was so used to magical people – McGonagall, who had to be pushing seventy, and didn’t look a day over forty. Dumbledore, well over a hundred, but still spry. Her parents had been in their late forties when she was conceived; they were nearly McGonagall’s age, themselves, and for the first time, she saw it. 

Without a word, she stepped under her father’s left arm and wrapped her arms around him and the petite woman he was clutching to his chest, wincing when she noticed the many silver strands in what had once been rich brown hair. Her mother wrapped her free arm around her, and the three of them held each other in silence for several long minutes. 

Her mother broke away first. “I won’t pretend I’m happy about this. I always knew you were meant for great things. The ballet lessons, the piano tutors – all of that was because I looked at you and saw a woman who would be able to take the world by storm. This isn’t exactly how I pictured it, but I’ve read enough of that blasted paper to know that the Harry you’ve been writing home about for the past six years is the same Harry the paper is calling The Chosen One. And if that scrawny little boy is going to save the world – well, I suspect he’ll need your help.” 

Hermione let the tears come, let them slip down her cheeks and stain her silk blouse. 

“Dr. Granger.” Dumbledore’s voice brought them all up short – they’d forgotten he was even there. “One of the reasons I wanted to speak to you and your fine husband today was to discuss magical protection for you. As you’ve realized, Hermione is very important to those in our world who would like to keep the darkness at bay – and that makes both of you targets. Voldemort would not hesitate to hold one or both of you hostage against her, and as fine a woman as Hermione is, I would not want her to be placed in that position.” Unspoken was something she suspected only the two of them understood – under enough torture under the Cruciatus and Legilimency, there was nothing she knew that Voldemort would not be able to discover, whether she told him of her own free will or not. 

“What do we need to do?” Her father’s lined face was firm. “Maybe we haven’t always been the right sort of parents for her, but if we can give her one less thing to worry about, we’ll do it.” Her mother nodded. 

“Miss Granger, please excuse us for a moment.” Dumbledore’s voice was kind, but firm. “Perhaps you can ensure that your trunk is packed with anything you’d like to bring with you. Anything at all.” 

She nodded silently, looking to both her parents for their approval, but neither of them would take their eyes off the withered, blackened hand the Headmaster had finally revealed. She left the room, padding on silent feet up the stairs; there was no low murmur of voices from the lounge – Dumbledore had probably silenced the room so she wouldn’t be tempted to eavesdrop. 

One of the best things about reaching her magical majority was the freedom to practice her magic in her own home, Muggle though it may be, and several sweeps of her wand later, the entire contents of her room were shrunken down and neatly placed in her trunk. That extension charm was looking like something she absolutely had to learn, even if she had to stay after class and ask Flitwick for private instruction. 

A quick Featherweight charm on her trunk later, and she levitated it from her bedroom to follow her down the stairs. 

“Ah, Miss Granger, please join us.” Her parents were sitting together on the sofa, heads down and eyes wet. She joined them, letting her trunk settle by the door. 

“Now then, your parents have agreed to go into hiding until such time as the war has ended. A memory charm will prevent them from remembering you, or indeed anything about the magical world. They will take up residence in another country, far from this wretched, wretched war. When we have defeated Voldemort, we will come to lift the charm, and you will be happily reunited with them.” 

Hermione stared at the old man; a memory charm was easily broken by a powerful Legilimens. If Voldemort ever suspected her parents knew anything, he would break them. 

“No,” she started, but her father’s hand on her arm stopped her. 

“We agreed to this,” he said. On his other side, her mother nodded. 

Her wand was in her hand before she had fully thought of her plan. The nonverbal Stunner hit both of them, and they slumped over, unconscious. 

“Obliviate, sir,” she said, forcing herself to do what was best for her parents, not what she wanted to do. “A memory charm can be broken by even a mediocre wizard, if they know it is there. And – if the castor dies, the charm breaks. Whether it’s you or I, sir, our chances of seeing the end of this war aren’t good. It will have to be the Obliviate. They,” she paused as a sob caught in her throat. “I don’t want them to worry. They’re better off not knowing. Safer.” 

Dumbledore was silent for several minutes, and she prayed that he wasn’t going to deny her this; she didn’t have the precision to completely erase herself from their minds without damaging them. 

“I will do this for you, Miss Granger,” he said, finally. “We can magically remove their memories and replace them with those of a normal Muggle couple, preserving their original memories to be returned to them when you are ready.” He took a deep breath. “For now, let us put them in their room to sleep, and I will return later with Professor Snape. He is far more skilled at mind magics than I.” 

She assisted in levitating her stunned parents to their bedroom and casting a powerful charm that she had never heard of before. She memorized the incantation and wand movements, sure that such a charm could come in handy in the future. 

As Dumbledore sent her trunk along to Hogwarts and connected her parents’ fireplace to the Floo Network temporarily, she followed mutely, wondering if she was doing the right thing for them. 

She joined the Headmaster in a cozy sitting room off his office, smiling a little at the matching purple armchairs in front of the fire. 

“I am very sorry to have intruded on such a private family scene this morning, Miss Granger. It truly was not my intention.” 

“I’m sorry you had to witness it, sir. They’ve been very upset over this holiday.” She paused, trying to frame her next thought. “Sir, did you come to my house this morning just to help me protect my parents, or was there another reason?” 

Dumbledore smiled at her as he settled more comfortably in his chair. “You are very direct, Miss Granger. It is an underappreciated trait, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.” She offered him a wry smile, not wanting to change the topic. “I am sure, by now, that Harry has told you something of the prophecy you were sent after at the end of last year.” 

She nodded. “He told us after you left him at the Burrow, sir.” 

“Very good. That was my intention. As you know, I have been giving him private lessons this year, to prepare him for the task he will have if he wants to defeat Voldemort. My intention this morning was to speak with you, privately, about something that is only tangentially related to that.” 

“Sir?” 

“Miss Granger, if you will bear with an old man for a few moments, I will endeavor to explain all, but you must promise me that you will never speak of this to young Harry.” 

“I’m not sure I can do that, sir. Harry is my best friend.” She frowned; she’d always suspected that Dumbledore kept things from Harry, and last year’s debacle with the prophecy had only cemented those thoughts, but she’d never expected him to ask her to do the same. 

“Miss Granger – Hermione – I was not merely offering flattery when I said you were the brightest witch in several generations. By now, you will have pieced together much of what I am about to tell you on your own, and, for your own reasons, have not shared those thoughts with Harry. Harry, as you know, can often be reckless, and some knowledge should not be shared with him until he is ready to hear it. Or have I misjudged you?” 

She narrowed her eyes at him as a thought crossed her mind. “The memories you’re showing him – you’re trying to lead him to a conclusion. Whatever it is you’re doing with him in those lessons, it’s a way of getting Harry to understand something he’d run off half-cocked about if you simply told him outright.” 

It wasn’t a question, but he nodded. “You are far too logical and sensible for such a ruse to work on you, and while I suspect you are putting some of the pieces together on your own, there is more to it than I am sharing with Harry – though I’m certain you’ve already figured that out.” He offered a smile, which she was not willing to reciprocate. 

That only seemed to encourage him; he smiled widely. “In a very real way, you are just as integral to the War effort as our mutual friend – perhaps even more so, in the end.” When her eyebrows went up at that, he nodded. “Oh, yes, Hermione. You see, very old men, such as myself, are prone to making mistakes. And being rather cleverer than most people, the mistakes I make tend to be quite a bit larger.” 

She was glaring at him with open skepticism now. “With all due respect, Headmaster, I have not given you leave to use my proper name, nor did I agree to this meeting for you to blow smoke up my arse.” The calm, collected part of her, the little girl that was in awe of all things magical and held more respect for authority than was probably wise, cringed. The rest of her – the part that had coldly looked at the situation with her parents and decided on the most efficient, if slightly ruthless, solution – was proud. “You claim you brought me here for a reason. I think it is time you told me what it was.” 

“Very well, Miss Granger. Please accept an old man’s apologies for – how does Severus phrase it? – ah, yes, ‘dancing around the topic like a virgin on her wedding night’.” She stifled a grin at that, though it took her a moment to recognize that ‘Severus’ was her Potions Professor. “What I am showing Harry is, as I said, tangentially related to what I brought you here today to discuss, which is, of course, why I mentioned it. Tell me, have you uncovered the lesson in what I’m showing him?” 

Hermione closed her eyes, recalling everything she could about Harry’s lessons. “Tom Riddle was charming, clever, handsome, and ambitious. He was fiercely proud of his magical heritage,” she mused. “Obsessed might be a better word. He was related to Slytherin, and he liked to collect trophies of his kills.” She opened her eyes as a thought occurred to her. “Trophies. There’s something there. Harry said he was confused as to why you seemed to think he was on the right track with the mouth organ. The ring.” She darted her eyes to his hand, but it was bare. “The locket and cup he sold. There’s something special about them, besides being valuable historical artifacts, isn’t there?” 

“Well done, Miss Granger. I must say, I’m terribly sorry to have never had you as a student while I was teaching. It would have been an absolute delight, I suspect.” He nodded. “Indeed, I believe that his ‘trophies’, as you’ve phrased it, and what a ghastly word for items to remind one of a murder, are far more dangerous than anything we’ve seen in centuries – save, perhaps, one small item.” He pulled something ragged and black from the top drawer of his desk, and Hermione stared at it for several seconds. 

“Is that the diary – from the Chamber of Secrets?” Her eyes narrowed. She’d done extensive research on ways one could preserve a memory – but nothing had come close to abilities of that diary. Either it was extremely dark magic that she would have no access to, or it was something he’d created himself, which was, perhaps, even more frightening. Known Dark Magic, for example, usually had some sort of counter – an original spell would have none, unless the creator himself had devised one. 

“Indeed. I had long suspected that Tom had dabbled in magic that should never be meddled in, and I had my suspicions as to how he remained alive in any form after that fateful Halloween. It wasn’t, however, until young Harry brought me this diary, flushed with his victory over the basilisk, and young Tom himself, that I had something bordering on proof.” He paused for several moments, and then put it away. “Tell me, Miss Granger, have you, perhaps, ever heard of a Horcrux?” 

As always, hearing an unfamiliar term frustrated her; the Hogwarts Library was vast – there was no way for any one student, no matter how quickly she read, to make it through the entirety of it in seven years of schooling. The Library, in fact, was one of the main reasons that she considered becoming a Professor. “No, sir. Should I have?” 

“I would sincerely hope not. Put quite simply, my dear, a Horcrux is an object in which a witch or wizard traps a part of his soul. When this person dies, the part of the soul trapped in the Horcrux acts as something of a tether, binding the rest of the soul to the mortal plane, until a new body can be created or possessed. It is a rather brutal form of immortality.” He paused to let it sink in, and she recalled Harry’s recounting of Tom’s introduction to the magical word, his conviction, at age eleven, that his mother couldn’t have been magical, or she would never have died. 

“In the normal course of things, a Horcrux will call the creator’s soul back to it’s physical location, and the soul, bound to the earthly plane, will collect the magic from the surrounding area, and any witches or wizards in its proximity, to create, literally from the earth itself, a new body. This, of course, presumes that the wizard’s body is not still whole. What, then, would you consider the downside to this method?” 

“Well,” she said, giving herself a few moments to process that souls were, in fact, real, and not a product of religious propaganda, and that it was possibly to put part of one’s soul in an object. “If the Horcrux is destroyed, then the soul would be free – to go wherever souls usually go, I suppose.” A thought occurred to her, and she looked up at him, curiously. “Sir, could you split your soul more than once? Create several of these things?” At his nod, she continued. “In that case, I suspect the soul would be – torn? – between two or more locations.” The implications of that stunned her. “He has more than one, doesn’t he?” 

“I believe he does. If he did not, then the destruction of that diary, which was obviously, in retrospect, a Horcrux, and one created when he was quite young, which is frightening in and of itself, should have either sent his soul to oblivion, or should have created a new body for him, pulling magic from the area it was stored in until it was done.” 

“What about his original body? Didn’t they say it was never found?” 

“Ah, yes. I suppose that was always a possibility. However, I believe that his original body had been subjected to too many Dark rituals to survive the circumstances of his death. If I am wrong, well…it would indicate that his soul animated the corpse in an effort to relocate to his Horcrux, but failed before the soul was pushed from it. My understanding, from speaking to rather powerful necromancers, is that the soul usually takes around three days to depart.” 

“And if he had more than one Horcrux, his body wouldn’t have known which direction to go to,” she concluded. “What do you think happened?” Her earlier frustration and suspicion was forgotten for the moment in the excitement of discovery. 

“I believe that Tom’s body was torn, or perhaps shredded would be a better word, as his soul attempted to direct it to the various locations he had hidden his Horcruxes in.” 

“And his soul?” 

“Ah. Yes. Well, insomuch as I have been able to discover, Tom’s soul was probably damaged beyond repair, and while parts of what was left of it would have split off in that mad scramble to create a body, the vast portion of it slunk away to some secret place to lick its wounds, until it was strong enough to try again. Had he not regained his body, it would eventually have been torn apart, leaving his Horcruxes, however many of them there are, as nothing more than powerfully Dark objects, without the ability to resurrect him.” 

“Sir, couldn’t we make one for Harry? That way, if something goes wrong, we can bring him back, and he can still fight?” The excitement of new knowledge quite blinded her to the horror on his face, but his next words put a stop to it. 

“Miss Granger, to create a Horcrux, one must deliberately split one’s soul – to do that, one must murder, in cold blood, an innocent. I rather suspect that part of the malfunction of Tom’s Horcruxes is that few of his kills were done to the innocent.” The Headmaster’s voice was cold, and she shivered. 

Another tremor rocked her, when she realized what he was getting at. “So – the Horcrux tying him to life was made when he killed – or tried to kill – Harry? Is that what you’re saying?” He didn’t answer. “Where is it?” 

The blue eyes filled with tears, and she was terribly afraid she knew what he was going to say; it made perfect, if horrific, sense. The connection between them, his reactions to Tom’s presence. All of it. “It’s Harry.” Her spine turned to steel. “How do you destroy a Horcrux?” 

“The item containing it must be destroyed, beyond magical repair. There are so few things that can accomplish that, you know,” he said, letting her reach her own conclusions. 

“Basilisk venom. Certain magical fires. And the Killing Curse.” To destroy the Horcrux, they would have to kill Harry. She would not accept that. 

“We have begun so late, Miss Granger. We do not know the locations of his Horcruxes, nor do we know how many he has made. What we need is more _time_.” 

She looked up at him, shocked. Those were the exact words he’d said to her, not three years before, when she and Harry had used her Time-Turner to save Sirius and Buckbeak. But it wasn’t _possible_. 

“The five hours given by a Time-Turner wouldn’t be much help, sir.” 

“Indeed not. However, I must wonder if you are familiar with the cautionary tale of Miss Eloise Mintumble?” She nodded; it was one of the in-depth stories in the Ministry pamphlet she’d been given with her Time-Turner in third year. She’d read it cover to cover countless times, making sure she didn’t muck it up. “As you know, Miss Mintumble had a rather catastrophic accident with her Time-Turner, and was stuck five hundred years in her past, until she could be rescued. And while that is, of course, a horrifying fate to imagine, let us not forget what happened upon her return: unbirths, damage to time itself – and Miss Mintumble, living all five hundred years in the space of time it took for her to come back.” 

Experience, via Harry, taught her that with Dumbledore, the story on the surface was only part of the tale. The point was always buried in inanities. Was it her imagination, or had he slightly, very slightly, emphasized the word ‘return’? Oh, of course! 

“Sir, are you implying that it was the return journey, and not the trip to the past, that caused the damage?” He nodded, and she frowned. “The changes would have rippled through time until they caught up with her ‘present’, the one she’d vanished from. Which would mean that she would have been perfectly safe if she’d just stayed five hundred years in the past.” It was a staggering thought. 

“Perhaps, what is even more important, is that there was no existing Miss Mintumble in the time she journeyed to. No past and future selves meeting and causing chaos, no need to share the limited magic between two persons, risking turning oneself into a Squib – or worse.” 

And she understood. Even if the limitations could be removed from a Time-Turner, there was no way for Dumbledore to travel back over a hundred years and prevent his own birth – or worse – in order to stop this. Nor could any of the professors, save perhaps Snape, who was probably too vicious to be much good at changing things around. Every other member of the Order was either too old, or had magical relations that would recognize their physical traits – the particular shade of Weasley red, for example. No, it would have to be her. 

He must have seen the realization come over her. “Please understand, Miss Granger, I cannot ask this of you. This is not a task I could reasonably request someone to volunteer for, nor could I be certain of the motives of anyone who did. Your life, as you know it, would be completely forfeit. Hermione Granger may never be born, and I have no idea what effect that could have on your current self. And it should only be as a last resort – if we have lost the war so badly that there is no hope for the future, with an immortal Dark Lord ruling the world.” 

“You mean, if Harry dies, somehow, and Voldemort lives.” _Somehow_ , she thought bitterly. She may have to be the one to do it herself; if Voldemort could possess Quirrell, he could possess Harry – he had possessed Harry, at least for short periods of time. If Voldemort were to use Harry against them, it might fall on her to kill him. Surely, that was the circumstance Dumbledore meant – that she was to go back in time before she had to kill Harry. 

She took a deep breath. “What do I need to do?” 

 


	2. The Travels of a Teen-Aged Girl (Or That Time Someone Knew More Than Albus Dumbledore)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd strongly suggest a reread of this chapter, primarily because it's been drastically altered. My beta, the amazing Nyruserra, and I had a long chat about this story and the direction switched. Which meant an intensive rewrite of this chapter. What this means for you, as a reader, is that Snape will have a more appealing role in the story, several relationships are going to shift, and we are basically starting the beginning of a crazy, wild ride.

There are lines of demarcation in everyone’s life; a point, a moment, when one looks at it in hindsight and says, “This. This here is the moment it changed.” And in the defining, one comes to associate the before and after of these lines as though two separate people had lived in the before and after, rather than different aspects of the same whole.

Hermione’s line of demarcation was the moment she realized her best friend would die; it was quite a different thing from realizing that he _could_ die, that he _might_ die, that he was _willing to die_ to save them all. No, those she accepted, quietly, because she knew that the same was true of her; she could die, she might die, and she was willing to do so, if it saved other lives. But Harry _was going to die_. There was no possibility for a last minute reprieve. As soon as Harry, himself, figured it out, whether by her hand or another’s, he would choose death. Dumbledore had been clear: as long as Voldemort was dead, then it was of no consequence if Harry followed. But if Voldemort should live while Harry died, and the war lost – then, and only then, was she to utilize the precious gift even now resting heavily between her breasts, hidden under robes and Disillusioned.

That line of demarcation was never clearer than the moment she, after a frantic forty minutes of scouring the ground floor of the school to find Harry, heard Voldemort’s voice, again magically amplified as it echoed through the stone walls of the castle.

“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.”[1]

What remained of Hogwarts’ defenders rushed, en masse, to the Entrance Hall and through the massive doors, and she followed. Voldemort still spoke, but it was drowned out in a cry that sounded nothing like her favourite professor, and she came to a stop beside McGonagall, adding her own voice to the denial. And then silence.

She must have gone deaf; it was the only explanation. The world was still moving, Voldemort was talking, his Death Eaters standing behind him, but she only had eyes for Hagrid, holding the impossibly small, limp body of her best friend cradled gently in his arms. In death, he was peaceful, the lines of stress and worry that had creased his face since Voldemort’s return erased; the tension of his muscles eased. She almost envied him. She _would_ have envied him, if she wasn’t so bloody _angry_ that he’d left them here with the snake still alive and Voldemort waving his wand around to make a point she couldn’t bloody well _hear_ because she’d clearly gone deaf.

Sound returned as a mass of people crested through the front gates of the school, as Grawp came to defend Hagrid, joined by the centaurs’ arrows, and with it came clarity. She had been foolish, thinking that she would have to be the one to kill Harry; she had forgotten the most important line in the prophecy: and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. Her duty had never been to kill Harry – her duty was to make sure that he lived long enough to take Voldemort with him.

And she’d failed.

In the chaos around her, she darted between duelling pairs and a positive rain of arrows, pushing towards one destination. She fought desperately, ruthlessly through the school, sending spell-fire at Death Eaters and allies alike, ignoring the abuse shouted after her – indeed, she didn’t even hear it. Once again, the world seemed to have fallen silent, or she had simply gone deaf from the blood rushing through her ears, blocking out all sound.

After an eternity, she finally, finally reached her destination, and stumbled to a stop, panting, staring at the smashed stone guardian on the ground, a tragic victim of a stray spell. It called abuse towards her as she pushed herself to reach the relative safety of the Headmaster’s office and complete the task she had been given. It was only once she’d made it, the heavy wooden door closed and warded behind her, that she dared take a moment to catch her breath.

“Is it true?”

Her eyes met painted blue upon the wall. “He’s dead.”

“You know what you must do, Miss Granger.”

Putting her back to the portrait of the man whom she’d come to regard as a manipulative old coot since discovering that Rita’s biography of him, while sensationalized, was in fact mostly true, she felt along her neckline until her fingers brushed the heavy gold chain. With a long, fluid pull, the invisible item slid from under her blouse, and she tapped it, once, with her wand, bringing the functional part of it into view. This was not something she could do on feel alone.

The sun burst into the room in the glory of dawn, and a great cheer echoed through empty corridors; it was unbearable. She ignored the tightness in her throat, the worry at who else had died, the certainty that Voldemort had vanquished her friends – that Voldemort had won. She closed her eyes tightly against the brightness of the worst morning of her short life, and gave the small device a turn. And another. And another. In total, she flipped it twenty-seven times, her eyes still shuttered against the rise of nausea, her feet rooted to the floor, sound rushing past her in snatches, and she oblivious to it, passing through hundreds of thousands of hours a second, with all of time blurring around her. A snap broke her concentration, followed immediately by a silence so absolute that she was terrified to open her eyes, certain she was dead.

“How extraordinary!”

She slipped the little object back under her jumper, grateful for the extra bulk to hide its distinctive shape between her breasts, and then turned to lavish a bright, brittle smile at Dumbledore. “Hello, Professor!”

If the dying Dumbledore who had sent her on this journey had done his work properly, the man in front of her had not yet become the chess master, moving his pawns around to manipulate the magical world to his liking and advantage. A year on the run, spending far too much time alone with her thoughts inside that tent had given her perspective on his actions; she couldn’t approve of them, but she did understand them.

“I do wish all of Voldemort’s messengers were so pleasant. Please, my dear, won’t you have a seat?” He gestured a large, squashy purple armchair that appeared behind her, his face charmingly open and his smile wide, but she had spent a year – no, longer than that, at least three years in a state of what could only be considered constant vigilance, and her eyes, the ones she’d trained to notice minutia, lingered for a fraction of a second on the tip of the wand up his sleeve.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” she said, pretending to ignore, or not see, the weapon pointed in her direction. She was sure she must look like an escapee from the locked ward at St. Mungo’s, wearing the same clothes she’d fought Death Eaters and dragons in, her hair coming free from its braid, singed and soot-covered, falling about her face. She would think less of him if he were to trust her after such a unique appearance.

She sank gratefully into the chair, her tired, sore muscles screaming for release, but a sharp stabbing made her jump up, and a glance at her leg showed her that only a scant few inches of her wand remained, broken jaggedly, with a tiny strip of sinew exposed – the heartstring of the glorious pink and silver dragon Ollivander said provided the core. Blinking back tears, she pulled it from her belt and stared down at it, until a rather forced cough, reminding her uncomfortably of Umbridge, drew her attention back to the wary man across the desk.

“Sorry, sir,” she said, hating how broken her voice sounded. “I’ve had it since I was eleven.” Her face screwed up for a moment; the wand wasn’t the only thing she’d had since she was a first year, but it had been the one thing she thought she could safely bring. The books, photos, and various sundries she’d packed into her beaded bag had not been intentional. When Ron presented her with it, at Shell Cottage, she’d been too grateful to have it back that she hadn’t thought to ask how he’d retrieved it from Malfoy Manor; she’d simply attached it to her hip with a Sticking Charm and replaced it there every time she’d changed clothes, Disillusioning it to ensure that it was not taken from her again.

“It is always a tragedy when one breaks one’s wand,” he agreed, passing a handkerchief across his desk. Once her face was dry, and the broken fragment of wood placed reverently on his desk, he smiled and spoke again. “Now, tell me, my dear child, what message has Voldemort sent you to convey?”

A short, broken-sounding laugh echoed through the room, and she was horrified to realize that it had come from her. She forced herself into some measure of calm, but it was ineffective; her breath broken by ragged sobs, limbs shaking – Harry was dead, Voldemort had won, and she was stuck in a time before she was born, probably unwriting her own existence as she sat, a broken girl, in her Headmaster’s office, being asked to provide a message from the man who’d killed her best friend.

“There, there, my girl,” a warm, motherly voice said, putting a soft, plump arm around her shoulders. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can fix it.”

Her tears came faster; no one could fix this, not even her. She could prevent it from playing out the same way, but it would never be fixed.

“Come now, love, and drink this,” the woman said again, and a flask was put under her nose. She gagged on the smell of rancid socks, but the smell and the pale purple colour were familiar. She tipped the contents into her mouth, trying to keep it in her mostly empty stomach, and almost immediately felt the soothing relaxation of the Calming Draught wash over her. The terror and heartbreak were still there, but they were at a distance, as though she was watching over herself from outside her body.

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” she said, her enforced calm recognizing the woman as the one who forced the potion into her hands. “Please forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, child. We all can sometimes become overwhelmed by our troubles; it does not reflect poorly on you, but shows us the strength of your character.” She wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but she couldn’t care about it long enough for his answer to matter. She was floating, complacent, over the room.

“If you’ll excuse me, Albus.” The warm arm around her shoulder vanished, and she sighed before finally looking up to meet the eyes of Albus Dumbledore. There was no twinkle; he looked grave and apprehensive – she couldn’t maintain eye contact for long. Her eyes darted around the room instead, taking in as many of the changes she could find from her short visits in her sixth year.

“Sherbet lemon?” he asked, holding out a cut-glass bowl of tiny yellow sweets. While not her favourite, particularly after growing up with parents who believed sugar to be the work of the devil, she nodded gratefully and picked two of the small candies, popping them into her mouth.

There had been many chapters in Rita’s book, but perhaps the most illuminating was the one that detailed the goings-on in the old man’s office – particularly the (probably illegally obtained) information about the composition of Dumbledore’s favourite treats.

“Mild truth potion, yes?” She asked around the little sour spots on her tongue.

“Only for students, my dear. Strangers receive something quite different.”

She sucked on the sweets a little more strongly; tasteless potion – very rare. “Veritaserum?”

“Indeed. As a high ranking member of both the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards, it is within my power to administer it to any of-aged witch or wizard I deem necessary.”

Her eyes narrowed; there were ways around Veritaserum, after all. “In that case, _sir_ , Voldemort would like to brag that Harry Potter is dead, the war is over, and your side has lost.”

His face fell in increments: first the slightly raised eyebrows, furrowing over bright blue eyes, followed by his eyelids, narrowing in suspicion, the slight smile flipped to a tight-lipped frown. “Is that so?” At her nod, his face went feral. “And your role?”

That haunted, broken laugh, slipping past her lips again forced her to reign in what emotion she could, throwing it behind her ragged Occlumency walls. The Calming Draught was no match for the losses she'd suffered, but she tried to stifled them anyway.

"My role?" The words were torn from her ragged throat, and she flung them at him, revelling in the flinch he betrayed. "My role, as you call it, was to guide Harry, steady him, keep him alive just long enough for him to kill Voldemort, and use this," she ripped the Time-Turner off her neck and threw it to clatter across his desk, bouncing with a metallic _thunk_ , "if he failed."

His wand was out, pointed at the object before her words had time to sink in, and he waved it over the small gold device, frowning. "This is my magic. How did you come by this?" There was no twinkle in his blue eyes – they were darkened and flinty.

"You gave it to me," she said, more rationally. She knew intellectually that she needed to have this man behind her, supporting her actions in this time, but she couldn't seem to get a handle on her emotions. "Harry Potter is my best friend, sir. At times he was my only friend. And you knew," she choked back a sob, "knew that he was going to die. So you made me take this, and swear to use it if he died before Voldemort. And he did," she said, her voice breaking on the last word. "He did."

The old man seemed to crumple, his back folding under the weight of her words. "I did this? I did this to children? Children under my care and protection?" He held out his wand, pointed towards himself. "Show me."

Albus Dumbledore was more skilled with nonverbal, wandless magic than any wizard in written history, but handing her the Elder Wand was still a supreme act of trust. If her intentions were to harm him, she could shoot a spell more quickly than he could raise a shield. She respected the gesture for what it was, and grasped the end of the wand loosely, waiting for him to release it; she wanted nothing of its power. As soon as his hand released it, she looked up to judge his demeanour. Trust was hard to come by in her world, only given to those she knew would not betray her. What she saw was kind blue eyes, still not twinkling, but laced with something almost worse than suspicion: pity.

Unlike anything else, that steeled her resolve. Without a word, she pointed the wand at her left temple, and slowly pulled it away, a gossamer strand of what looked like pure moonlight clinging to the tip. He dumped the small candy dish onto his desk and cleaned it out with a wandless Scourgify, placing it directly in front of her across the expanse of his desk. She dropped the memory into it, but when he reached for it, she stopped him.

"You need to see all of it, if you're going to understand."

She pulled several more strands of memory and dropped them into the dish before she nodded.

“My dear, it occurs to me that while you have the advantage of my name, I do not have yours.”

“Hermione, sir. Hermione Granger. I’m Muggleborn,” she added, cutting off what she was sure would be a question about her magical relations.

"Will you accompany me, Miss Granger?" She looked up; she had no desire to relive any of it. "I cannot leave you alone in my office, unattended, until I can confirm your tale. I'm sure you understand."

The unspoken was that if she refused, he could have her confined and put under watch until he was at his leisure to release her; she nodded. "I will, sir."

He grinned, crossing the room to a large cabinet and pulling the stone basin from within. She passed his wand to him, and he dumped the handful of memories from the candy dish into the Pensieve. "Well then, my dear, bottoms up!"

She allowed him to grasp her arm, not tightly, but firmly enough to ensure she joined him, and she was pulled into the depths of her memory.

She and Dumbledore stood in the centre of her parents’ sitting room, during the Christmas holiday of her sixth year, watching the memory versions of themselves discuss the fate of her parents’. Well, Dumbledore was watching, avidly, taking in every detail; she was drinking in the faces of her parents, desperately trying to commit them to memory so she would never, ever forget them.

Dumbledore nodded along with her slightly younger self, as she described what needed to be done to fully protect her parents. “A wise, if difficult, decision. I applaud your bravery, Miss Granger.”

She nodded in response, not trusting herself to speak. The memory ended, faded into fog, and resolved into a stone-walled room, one they both would easily recognize as the Potions classroom, unless it had changed. Given that Slughorn had been the professor then, as well as he was currently, she doubted that.

This particular scene had taken place several weeks after the term had begun again. The classroom that had taken on a much different aspect under Slughorn had grown menacing with the addition of the former professor, as though he carried gloom and darkness in his black robes. She snorted at the lurid imagery, one she recalled thinking at the time, and wasn’t surprised when her memory self did the same.

“If you wish to add Polyjuice to your stocks, Miss Granger, I suggest you focus less on your inane internal musings and more on the task at hand; it is time to add the lacewing flies.”

The smooth, silky tones of Professor Snape drew her attention from the comparatively-well-groomed Hermione in front of the cauldron to the tall, thin man in the front of the room.

“Not much longer now, sir,” she offered, mouthing the words along with her younger self.

“Do not waste my time with your foolish Gryffindor platitudes, Miss Granger,” he snapped. “I am not here for your ridiculous chatter, but to ensure that you survive your damned-fool plan! Count yourself lucky that I haven’t yet retaliated for that little stunt of yours in your first year and kindly keep your babble to yourself.”

The Hermione in the memory jerked her head upward, clearly insulted, and she watched in absent amusement – there seemed to be sparks leaping from curl to curl across her head. She was amazed that neither Ron nor Harry had ever commented on it. Dumbledore’s eyes widened at the display.

“Impressive,” he murmured.

“I am not Harry, _sir_ ,” she snapped. “As my parents were Muggles, it’s not possible that you despised them as much as you apparently did his, but perhaps that is your problem! Is this spiteful treatment because I’m nothing more than a filthy little Mudblood, _Professor_?”

Snape stood, his towering figure looming over her as though he’d Apparated across the room. “Never,” he hissed menacingly, “use that word in my presence again. And certainly never in reference to yourself.” The memory-Hermione cowered, the sparks dying and her hair seemed to fall limp around her face. “Am I clear, Miss Granger?”

“C-crystal, sir,” the girl whispered, and Hermione smiled.

“This man was a professor?” Dumbledore demanded, facing her.

“You’ve made some very questionable staffing choices in my time, sir,” she offered, trying to keep the same tone her younger self had just used with Snape out of her voice. If the somewhat baffled look he shot was an indication, she hadn’t succeeded. Giving herself a mental shrug, she turned her attention back to the still-cowering teenager and the no-longer-looming professor both of whom looked slightly ashamed of themselves.

“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have said that,” the girl offered timidly. “You’ve helped Dumbledore hide my parents, and I should be grateful. Please accept my apology.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “I assure you, Miss Granger, hiding a pair of dentists is hardly the most onerous thing the Headmaster has ever asked of me. Think nothing of it. I insist.” There was a threat to the last words and he glanced down at the cauldron in front of her, ladling a bit out and allowing it to slop back inside the cauldron. “Dismal, Miss Granger.” A wry smile accompanied the words, and the girl looked up for a moment and caught it.

“I quite agree, Professor. Perhaps I could take another stab at it next time?”

“As I know you were the one that brewed it in your second year – do not look so surprised, Miss Granger, it’s not as though Potter or Weasley could possibly have managed it – I suspect we can leave this one for later. If we have a later, that is. Come again next week, let’s make it Wednesday – we’re getting too predictable.”

“Yes, sir. Shall I clean this mess up?”

“I’m sure it will make an excellent example to my next detention; now get out of my sight.”

The memory dissolved again, reforming into the same classroom.

“He’s getting reckless,” the girl said, not taking her eyes off the cauldron in front of her.

“Is this an attempt to gain information, Miss Granger, or merely an observation? As I recall you were hardly as concerned when it was Miss Bell in the Hospital Wing,” the sour-faced man said, his voice snide. “It was so touching, watching the unfolding drama between the three of you. Pity, Miss Granger – I thought you ambitious. Pining after a Weasley…”

“Don’t, sir. Just – don’t.” The words were tired, and she could easily recall the moment – Ron had been caught in the crossfire of Malfoy’s latest careless attack, and ended up poisoned in the care of Madam Pomphrey. She hadn’t intended to share this memory.

“Very well, Miss Granger. You requested this meeting, I assume, for some purpose beyond warning me of his recklessness – though I’m inclined to agree. His attacks have lacked subtlety – quite Gryffindor of him, wouldn’t you say?”

“Can a Shrinking Solution be modified?”

Hermione smiled at the fractionally surprised expression before Snape managed to smooth it away. “To what purpose would it be modified?”

As she and Dumbledore had met in the time between her accepting the Time-Turner and the moment portrayed in the memory, she had ruminated on their plan many, many times. And no matter which way she looked at it, she couldn’t see how it would succeed.

Well, that was slightly untrue. She could certainly, in the spring of 1981, gather and destroy the Horcruxes, making Voldemort mortal, and set Dumbledore to lie in wait for him on Halloween – it would be a simple, effective plan. But it wouldn’t improve the state of the Wizarding World – there were ten years of hatred and whispers and mysterious disappearances that came before that time, ten unnecessary years of Voldemort rising to power, gaining prominence – and she couldn’t reconcile herself to that.

She’d been ruminating the question for weeks, and the attack on Ron had given her the impetus to ask it.

“Could it be modified for human consumption?”

Snape’s dark, glittering eyes met hers quickly, fiercely, and he offered her a rare smirk. “I think it would be possible, perhaps, by one with a Mastery in potions. For one such as yourself, without the natural aptitude for experimentation? I rather suspect not.” He paused, and offered her a condescendingly glance. “I am, however, terribly busy. There are seven years’ worth of students who need to be trained to properly defend themselves. And then there is my extra-curricular work,” he added with a sneer. “I sincerely doubt I could find the time for pointless experimentation.” A much longer pause, and he swooped, tilting the girl’s head back and looking directly into her eyes. The sensation of having someone using active Legilimency against her wasn’t one she’d ever forget. “If the experiment was not without purpose, however…”

The girl didn’t speak, but Hermione remembered pushing her thoughts on the modifications to the forefront of her mind. After several long, drawn out minutes, Snape stepped back.

“Did he just?” Dumbledore started, but she waved him off.

“I see, Miss Granger. It is an intriguing plan – reckless and terribly Gryffindor. I will expect a detailed plan on my desk before the holiday. If you can prove that you have fully thought it through, I could be persuaded to assist you in the modifications.”

The scene dissolved again on the desperate hope in the girl’s face.

“Again, Miss Granger!” Snape’s harsh command broke through the fog as an empty room with duelling dummies came into focus.

“Sectumsempra!” the girl cried, flinging a spell at the dummy.

“Dammit, girl! Dark Magic requires that you mean it! You have to want to cause injury, to cause pain! The desire is what fuels the spell! Now picture the object of your hatred and cast again!”

The girl repeated the spell, and it flew from her wand again, but still the dummy remained unmoved. Dumbledore, at her side, opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think the better of it. Perhaps he’d finally come to realize that there was little he wouldn’t allow – not that she had confessed this particular lesson to his other self – in her time.

Snape’s face, in the memory, turned a mottled puce, but he manfully reigned in the frustration. “Perhaps, Miss Granger, we should take a small recess and attempt this again another day.”

The scene dissolved before reforming quickly, and she smiled; Snape’s private quarters, still in the dungeons, despite his presence in the Defense classroom, were surprisingly well-lit and cheerful, with rich fabrics and a homey ambiance. Teacher and student sat across from each other in a small lounge area, each holding a small cup of tea, with the pot and a few biscuits on a tray between them.

“I don’t understand why I can’t do it,” the girl nearly whined.

“Who are you picturing?”

She reached, absently, with her free hand and rubbed at her right collarbone. “Dolohov.”

A small smile, too genuine to be a smirk, turned up the corners of Snape’s mouth. “An excellent choice. Someone with whom you have a genuine grievance, who has done you real, physical harm is the easiest to picture in this instance.”

“Then why can’t I do this?” she demanded.

Snape didn’t answer immediately; instead he stood, tea cup still in hand, and disappeared into what she knew was the attached kitchen in his quarters, returning moments later with a bottle of Ogden’s finest. The girl raised an eyebrow at him even as she held up her cup.

“If you ever disclose this I will deny it and you will spend every weekend and holiday for the foreseeable future scrubbing cauldrons and preparing ingredients,” he said as he poured a generous amount into the cup. He settled himself, and his own doctored tea, across from her once again. “I suspect that your problem is that you do not truly wish to cause pain or injury, not even to those you have reason to.”

She snorted into the tea, and threw him a mirror of his own sneer. “Two years ago I kept Rita Skeeter in a jar to stop her from writing about Harry. I was the one who cursed the signup sheet last year. Tell me I don’t want to injure those who injure me.”

“I suspected the girl Weasley of the latter,” he admitted. “Ruthlessness, Miss Granger, is not the same as a desire to cause injury. For example, you were quite ruthless when you disposed of your parents’ memories, were you not?”

The girl looked at him with loathing on her face and he laughed. “Me, Miss Granger, I suspect you could enjoy causing great pain.”

She blushed and ducked behind her teacup. “If I go through with the other plan, will I still need to know this?”

Snape settled himself more comfortably in his chair and sighed. “Our attempts to modify the Shrinking Solution had not yet been successful; there is every possibility you will have to know it. Even if you are successful, and we manage the modifications, you will still have to know how to defend yourself properly. I assure you, Hogwarts’ lack of competent Defence Professors is not a recent development.”

The memory ended there, and she had deliberately not included any others of herself and Snape; their friendship had been somewhat rocky, but that was the night they, to her mind, became equals. Too much firewhiskey and not enough sleep were apparently a combination that equalled Snape becoming far more loquacious than she’d ever suspected. That was the night she learned of Lily Evans, and his devotion to the redhead, the night she learned what Dumbledore’s ultimate plan for him was. It was the night she truly began to hate Dumbledore.

The next memory resolved around the more slowly, and she closed her eyes and braced herself. This was the moment that sent her to her current time period. This was the worst moment of her life. If she gathered her remaining energy and focused it, she rather suspected that the hatred she felt would allow her to successfully cast the Killing Curse at Voldemort.

And there was the high-pitched voice, proclaiming her best friend’s death. She looked away as the memory girl slumped against the wall for a moment before being swept into the press of humanity towards the voice.

Unlike her memory-self, she did not have blood rushing through her ears to block out the rest of Voldemort’s words; she could hear as well as see Neville’s bravery, rejoice that he’d managed to kill the damn snake and revel in the loathing and fear that crossed Voldemort’s face. She remembered, quite suddenly, that Neville, too, could have been the child of prophecy, and she allowed herself to hope that the cheer she’d heard before flinging herself into the past had been one of victory – perhaps, in the end, it had been Neville all along.

But a flash of movement drew her attention, even as the memory girl raced towards the entrance – there, in Hagrid’s arms! Was it possible!?

Harry vanished right before her eyes, and she knew it was true. He’d been alive! ALIVE! Tears coursed down her cheeks as she realized that he wasn’t dead. The flash she’d seen from his glasses moving and reflecting the torchlight had been real, and Harry Potter was alive.

As they were dumped out of the memory when she reached for her Time-Turner, another sudden thought hit her, and the tears flowed anew.

She’d done it for nothing. Harry had been alive when she left, and if he’d survived when Voldemort believed him dead, then surely, surely that victory cry was for Harry’s victory.

She could see them, behind her closed eyelids, as the others drank pumpkin juice in the Great Hall, looking for her. Ron, desperate, searching every still body on the ground with his face set, and Harry – Harry looking at each with a growing panic.

“Miss Granger, are you unwell?”

Dumbledore’s mild-toned question brought her back to herself, and she straightened, wiping her tears as unobtrusively as possible.

“I apologize, sir. I wasn’t prepared for that,” she said, offering him a small smile. She was torn – part of her wanted to beam, to shout to the skies that Harry Potter was alive and the other part wanted to crawl under a duvet and never come out, because she’d left him to fight alone, after promising him that she’d never leave his side.

“I, of course, understand far more why you are here than I did before, Miss Granger, though I wonder at your including the memories of yourself and the professor.”

“The modified Shrinking Solution, sir. I hadn’t intended to tell you this – but you had a far different plan in mind than this. I can only hope you will understand why I did it this way and forgive me.” She inclined her head and reached into her beaded bag again, noting that he didn’t draw his wand on her. “It was your intention for me to travel to the year 1981, the year he was first defeated, and gather and destroy his Horcruxes. This way, when he arrived to attempt to kill Harry, he would die in truth.”

“Miss Granger, please forgive an old man, but I’m still unclear as to how exactly he became bodiless in 1981 – or is it he will become bodiless…” he trailed off. “Time travel does butcher the tenses rather horrifically, doesn’t it?”

She smiled; this Dumbledore was much more cheerful, and far more direct, than the one she’d dealt with. “I suppose it is safe to tell you this – however, if you attempt to make it happen, I shall be quite cross.” She wagged her index finger at him half-playfully. In truth, if he attempted to right the timeline, she wasn’t sure what she would do; there was always the possibility she’d be so angry she could kill him, though. “In the summer or spring of 1980, I’ve never been able to determine exactly when, you’ll be interviewing a candidate for a newly vacant Divination position. While there, she will utter a genuine prophecy, regarding the downfall of Voldemort. However there was a spy listening in, and he heard the first half and took it back to Voldemort.” She swallowed her bitterness. If Dumbledore hadn’t wanted the prophecy to reach Voldemort, he’d have never allowed Snape to leave. He’d wanted Voldemort to know of it, so he would focus his attention on that. Ruthless, if efficient. Certainly the Order deaths had decreased in the year leading to that Halloween. She pulled her attention back to the conversation at hand. “When Voldemort learned that there was going to be a child born that would have the power to defeat him, he must have set someone to discover which child – though there were two. One of them was Neville Longbottom.” She saw the recognition of the name from her memory and smiled, offering him a nod. “Yes, that Neville. The other was Harry Potter. One boy was a Pureblood, everything that he stood for, and the other was the Half-blood son of a powerful Muggleborn and an ancient Pureblood line.”

“And he saw the threat in the child most like himself, I suspect – the Half-blood, am I correct, Miss Granger?”

“Harry, yes. He targeted Harry. The Potters used a rare and difficult charm to hide themselves, and entrusted the Secret of their location to one of Harry’s father’s best friends, but he was Voldemort’s mole in the Order of the Phoenix and he betrayed them. On Halloween, he used the information and broke into the house in Godric’s Hollow. He killed Harry’s father on the ground floor – and he offered his mother a chance to live, if she’d step aside and allow him to kill Harry. She refused, and he killed her. But when he tried to kill Harry, the spell backfired, and he died – only because of the Horcruxes, he didn’t really die…” she trailed off.

“Yes, the future version of myself explained what had become of him adequately, I suspect. I wonder, however, how anyone knows the truth of what happened?”

She smiled; it was something Harry had wondered, but she’d never questioned until he mentioned it. “I suspect you guessed most of it, sir, but I know it to be true because Harry recollected it all when he was exposed to Dementors. He heard his father telling his mother to take him and run, he heard his mother begging for her life, and Voldemort laughing, and he saw the flash of green light.”

“Extraordinary. I quite look forward to meeting this young man someday. You have my deepest sympathies for your loss.”

She blinked back tears. “Yes, he was rather extraordinary. Thank you. As I was saying, though, your plan – well, future you’s plan was to have be arrive in 1981 and gain your assistance in tracking down the Horcruxes and destroying them, leaving Voldemort unwittingly mortal as he attempted to kill my best friend.”

Dumbledore stared at her in shock. “I wasn’t going to make an attempt to save anyone? Not even these parents who had given their life for their son? Just – make Voldemort mortal and allow him to kill two people I assume were former students at my school!? One of whom I suspect is the child of a good friend of mine!?” The glass in the windows behind him rattled ominously, and one of the spindly objects shattered. He seemed to reign himself in with great difficulty. “Please understand, Miss Granger, I do not doubt the veracity of your story. I am angry with the man I became in your timeline, who would find this an acceptable level of sacrifice.”

“I understand, sir. I was rather angry, too. Harry was brought his mother’s Muggle sister, and she hated magic, hated his mum, and hated him. It wasn’t pleasant for him. When you first told me the plan, I accepted it as the only option, but then I began to question it; I was truly uncomfortable with leaving Harry’s parents to die. And I started thinking – if I could save the Potters, then I could save endless others.” She took a deep breath. “My professor – the one in the memories – he was the spy that overheard the prophecy. He turned away from Voldemort because he’d been in love with Harry’s mother since they were children. She rejected him because of what he was – a Slytherin and a Death Eater – when it was her own husband and his friends that caused him to become one.”

“I rather suspect we’ve now come to the reason for those memories, Miss Granger, please continue,” he prompted when she fell silent.

She held out a small moleskin pouch, opened it, and upended it into her hand. “This is a Muggle medicine capsule. My professor and I believed we were successful in modifying the Shrinking Solution for human consumption. In this capsule is a perfectly measured and calibrated dose that will, if were correct, revert me to my childhood. My body and mind will be that of a much-younger child, but my memories will remain. If I take this, I become a child, and I start Hogwarts in the fall, with the goal of altering their lives so that the events of that Halloween never come to pass.”

“And what of Voldemort?”

“With the knowledge of his Horcruxes and the location of several, I believe he can be safely destroyed long before that Halloween, and his Horcruxes dealt with before he can be resurrected. I rather thought you would prefer to be the one who did that, sir.”

Dumbledore frowned. “And if I do not?”

She smiled, sadly. “Then I use this,” she pulled the Time-Turner from around her neck, smiling as she realized he had never seen her palm it as they were approaching the Pensieve together, “and I return to the end of 1979, when I know where all of his Horcruxes will be, and I destroy them myself before attempting to duel him to the death. I will probably not survive, nor be successful, but he will never target my best friend, and he will be mortal, which will give you two years before he kills Harry’s parents to kill him.”

“Ruthless indeed, Miss Granger. But quite cunning. Tell me, what makes these people so special to you that you’ve upended my future self’s plans quite nicely?”

“Harry Potter was my best friend, and he deserved to have parents. His godfather was imprisoned in Azkaban for twelve years without a trial because of a traitor. My professor was a miserable, bitter man who loathed himself and his life, because he’d sold his childhood best friend and the love of his life to Voldemort. And the only other innocent in this whole mess besides Harry was forced to live a life of poverty and misery, thinking his best friend betrayed their other friend for those same twelve years. These were good people, sir. Harry deserves to have them all in his life.”

“Would any of these children be the reason I have planted a Whomping Willow on the grounds?” he asked, shrewdness lighting his face.

“Yes, which brings me to my next point.” She took a deep breath. “I will need a guardian, sir, one who can be told my identity and purpose in full, who can be trusted to make sure that I am in a position to influence the lives that I need to influence. To that end, sir, I was hoping you would have someone in mind.”

The old man in front of her frowned, and then stood up to pace behind his desk. She left him in silence, allowing him to take his time; this wasn’t a decision he could rush.

“Miss Granger, I would like more time to think over this, if you would allow me,” he said, the moment he was back in his seat. “I have the use of a small cottage in Godric’s Hollow where you will be perfectly comfortable and safe for a few days while I make arrangements for your future. Is this acceptable?”

Hermione took a deep breath; a cottage in Godric’s Hollow…it wasn’t exactly the place she’d choose to stay, given a choice, but it would be quiet. Peaceful. A quaint little village of Muggle and magical residents, living side-by-side, with no Lily and James Potter in the cemetery. She could mourn there; her friends, her life, her professor and parents. It would give her a few days to recover, to eat real meals for the first time in ages, to clean all of the grime from under her short, bitten fingernails, to clean the blood and soot and snake skin and dust from her hair. To think. To plan.

“Miss Granger?”

The question drew her attention back to the Headmaster; she’d been silent for too long. “Sorry, sir. Yes, the cottage will be lovely. Thank you.”

“Please, Miss Granger, think nothing of it. This is the least I can do for a child that I’ve harmed in so many ways.” He bowed his head over his folded hands. “I will send one of the Hogwarts’ elves to you, to keep you in healthy, nourishing food until I can get away from the school. My only request is that you do not leave the property without an escort and you do not take your potion until we’ve introduced you to your guardian. I rather suspect anyone who hasn’t met you as a capable, and if I may be honest, rather terrifying adult woman will not accept the plans for the child.”

Hermione smiled, as a phrase whispered through her mind. “Brilliant, but scary,” in Ron’s young voice; nice to know that she’d grown into that promise. [2]

She nodded to show she understood.

“Well, Miss Granger, I suppose that there’s nothing left for it; the Floo address is Gryffin’s Lodge,” he said, gesturing towards the fireplace with the small glass jar of powder sitting on the mantle beside a whirling silver object.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” she said, nodding to him before she crossed the room. She grabbed a small pinch of the glittering green powder and tossed it into the flames. “Gryffin’s Lodge!” she called, stepping into the flames.

The whirling, spinning sensation that she’d never quite accustomed herself to enveloped her, and she was sucked through the Floo Network, twisting and bumping out of one fireplace and into another. The spinning slowed and she waited for that perfect moment, getting as close to it as she could before forcefully flinging herself from the flames, landing on her knees, coughing up soot, on the rather dusty floor of a worn but homey room.

Groaning, she pulled herself to her feet and roughly brushed the soot from her denims, but gave it up as a lost cause; her clothing had been subjected to far too much in the past day or so to succumb to a little dusting off. She was, frankly, considering burning the lot. A banging sound in the next room drew her attention, and she ducked her head around the door, wishing for her wand, to see a diminutive elf magicking a pot onto the cast iron cookstove, a steady stream of white liquid pouring into it from above.

The creature startled for a moment, but impressively did not spill a drop, turning towards her with a rather fierce glare reminiscent of Molly Weasley at her mother hen best. “Miss is to go upstairs and wash, then come down and Tilly will feed.” When she didn’t immediately follow directions, the elf frowned. “Now, Miss!”

Hiding a snort, she darted up the dirty staircase to see another elf standing in the door of the far room. “This is Miss’ room.”

Hermione looked around as soon as she’d stepped through the doorway, taking into account the soft mint and dull gold bedding and upholstery that covered the white metal four-poster in the centre of the room, the slipper chair beside the bureau and the chaise longue under the window. It was soothing, and certainly a room she could rest in.

Two doors lined one wall, and the one nearest the hall was closed, but the one nearest the window was opened, and it lead into a small, but functional and nicely appointed lavatory, an old-fashioned claw-footed tub taking up the far wall with the sink and commode beside it; when she’d first entered the magical world, she’d been a little uncomfortable with the idea of the old-fashioned loo, but magic was far better at cleaning than any Muggle chemical she’d ever come across, and wizards just didn’t seem to have as much problem with germs as Muggles did – or at least not Muggle germs. Besides, there was something so sanitary about Vanishing charms as opposed to washing things away with water.

The elf nodded at her when she toed off her shoes, and as much as she didn’t want to be rude, there was something really creepy about the thing standing there while she was undressing to sink into the lovely bath it had drawn for her, so she closed the door with a rather loud click in the poor thing’s face. She could apologize later.

The dirty clothes she dropped into a convenient hamper below the sink, and smiled as they disappeared before they hit the bottom. Carefully, she stepped over the edge of the large tub and sighed softly as the nearly-scalding water stung her foot. She had no idea how the elf had known she liked her water so hot that her skin had to adjust to it before it was truly comfortable, but she was grateful as she sunk into the deep, frothy bubbles floating on the surface.

She’d missed baths before becoming a Prefect; the showers in the Gryffindor girls’ loo were wonderful – the temperature and pressure were perfect every time – but there was nothing like sinking to one’s neck in hot, scented, bubbling water.

Hermione let her thoughts wander wherever they pleased as she scrubbed days of grime and dirt off her skin and from her hair. The only things she shied away from in her own mind were the things that sent her to this time – namely, Harry and Snape. She would never consider herself friends with Snape, but they were allies, equals. He was a cruel, bitter, hard man who had never been given the chance to do much good in his life. And while most of that was a result of his own choices, there had been things that contributed to those choices, things she could help with. She didn’t like him; he was an unpleasant person, when it was all said and done, but she understood why he had become that way. And she wanted to help him.

She snorted and pushed the thoughts away; the adult Professor Snape would no more appreciate her efforts to help than the Hogwarts elves had – but he had assisted in modifying the potion.

She ducked under the water, rinsing her hair as best she could; showers were far superior to baths in the hair-washing arena, and as much as she usually enjoyed a good, long bath, the bubbles, and presumably the water beneath, had turned a dingy, grey-brown-red that turned her stomach. She pulled the chain that connected the plug with her toes, looking up at the delicate-looking metal frame that held up the curtain.

She pushed herself to her feet and turned on the faucets, turning the centre one to channel the water into the showerhead, and jumped a bit at the first brush of the water against her skin. She pulled the plain white linen curtain closed around her and quickly rinsed the feel of slimy, dirty bubbles from her skin, promising herself a thorough shower when she’d had a chance to rest.

When she felt clean enough, she turned off the water and wrapped herself in a thick white towel from a small cabinet above the commode. When she pushed open the door between the two rooms, she saw a long gown with a flounced ruffle at the hem sitting on the bed beside a garishly spangled dressing gown and snorted; Dumbledore was clearly loaning her appropriate clothing. A quick glance showed the slipper chair piled with her old clothes, now thoroughly cleaned and mended.

She dressed quickly, wrapping the vibrant dressing gown around her and cinching it at the waist with the tasselled string belt that accompanied it. When she was adequately covered, and her feet stuffed into a pair of soft slippers she located beside the bed, she made her way down to the kitchen, where a bowl of potato soup was giving off steam at a small wooden table.

She ate as much as she could manage, and thanked Tilly before returning to her suite. She pulled back the duvet and hung the dressing gown on a hook behind the closed door. When she slid between the sheets, however, she couldn’t seem to turn her mind off, and no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking of Harry.

Dumbledore had hinted, rather strongly, in fact, that she should use the Time-Turner after his death; it wasn’t their original plan – or rather, his original plan – but as the time grew closer, he seemed more anxious for her to leave. She’d ignored all those hints. She wouldn’t leave Harry until she had no choice, until he left her. She huddled into a ball on her side in the bed, shivering despite the warm covers. Harry hadn’t left her; whatever had happened, and she’d probably never know, he hadn’t left her. No, she’d seen him in Hagrid’s arms, and immediately left him. She had left Harry, left Ron, left her parents – her whole bloody life – and Harry hadn’t died.

Oh it was still possible that she’d heard the Death Eaters’ victory cheer just before leaving; watching it again in the memory hadn’t convinced her, though. There were more children than adult voices in that roar – children that would have cheered for Harry and not Voldemort. No, as much as she wanted to find another way to look at it, her brain was far too logical to allow her to lie to herself. She had given up her entire life, everyone she’d ever loved, for nothing.

Because Harry lived.

Her thoughts chased themselves around in this fashion until she finally drifted off, her cheeks stained by tears, sometime in the dark hours of the morning.

[1] _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ pg. 728, American Hardback

[2] Ron only says this in the film of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ , but it’s a brilliant line and I think it applies to book!Hermione as well.


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